


you're my river running high (run deep, run wild)

by notcaycepollard



Series: the grace in monsters [10]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Domestic, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, standard cap america PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 00:05:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9935894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: The third day after SHIELD falls, Sam finds a crow with a broken wing on his doorstep.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coffeeinallcaps](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeinallcaps/gifts).



The third day after SHIELD falls, Sam finds a crow with a broken wing on his doorstep.

“Shit,” he says stupidly. Stares down at the bird. He's fucking exhausted is what he is, has gotten all of five hours sleep in the last forty-eight, and Steve's supposed to be getting out of hospital today, and Sam _does not have time for this._

“Okay,” he says, half to himself and half to the crow. “Okay. Just wait there a minute, I'm gonna go get a box.”

When he comes back with a cardboard box, lined carefully with a soft old towel, the crow is still waiting. Like it's patient, Sam thinks, like it's exhausted too. He crouches down, scoops it up as carefully as he can. Ready for it to fight, but it doesn't even struggle. Just goes limp in his hands, as if it's in too much pain to flutter even its uninjured wing.

“Fuck,” he sighs, because he can see where this is going. Takes the crow inside, puts the box down on his kitchen table. Grabs his phone. “Hey, Natasha? Yeah, look, I'm not gonna make it to pick Steve up from the hospital.”

“Something come up?” Nat asks, dry, and Sam laughs a little.

“You would not even believe. Hey, make sure he's actually good to leave, and not doing the Steve thing.”

“I've known Steve Rogers longer than you,” Natasha reminds him, and Sam feels himself go hot with embarrassment, because no _shit_ , Wilson. “I know how he is. I'll text you when we're home, okay? Come by and see us later.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “Yeah, I'll do that.” He ends the call, looks down at the bird. “Guess I better call a vet, huh.”

The crow flutters wildly in agitation, and Sam sighs again. “Come on, you're injured, I gotta take you to a vet. That wing isn't something I can fix on my own.” There's another ruffle of soot-dark feathers, and then the crow fixes cool gray-blue eyes on Sam, tilts its head to the side, looks at him in a way that feels pleading.

Wait. _Aren't crows supposed to have black eyes,_ Sam thinks, and tilts his head back, mirroring the gesture. The crow waits.

 

He's seen those eyes before. Feathers that color. An eagle, so huge Sam'd wondered how it was real, but the talons were sharp enough to rip one of his wings away, send him spiralling off the edge of the helicarrier. _A shapeshifter,_ Nat had said when the panther had landed on Sam's car. _I knew they were trying. I didn't know they'd succeeded. You really think the Tesseract was the only Asgardian magic they were messing with?_ Sam saw enough of the fight with Steve on the highway, even as he was preoccupied picking off the other gunmen. The dark figure shifting like smoke, lion to man to bear to eagle to wolf back to man, rolling sinuous from form to form so that Steve could never get the upper hand.

“ _Barnes?_ ” he asks, and the crow makes a harsh noise in the back of its throat. “You can understand me?” Another noise, a tilt of the head the other way, and then a nod, unmistakably human even as it comes from a small smoke-dark bird sitting in a box on Sam's table.

“Holy shit,” Sam says. Sits down heavily and stares at the crow. “Can you shift back?” A shake of the head, emphatic. “Do you need me to… Is your wing broken?” Shake. “Dislocated?” Ruffle of the feathers, and then a nod, and Sam chews his lip. “You got the serum, right? If I put it back in place, will that be enough for you to heal?” A long, long pause, and then the crow nods, tiny and maybe a little afraid.

 _Fuck._ Sam stands up, reaches in. The crow - _Bucky_ \- holds himself still like it's an effort.

“I'm going to touch your other wing first, okay,” he says gently. “If I'm gonna do this, I want to feel what it should feel like. Just because I got wings doesn't mean I'm an expert on birds, jeez.” Bucky nods, small, and lets Sam carefully touch his uninjured wing. His bones are so fragile Sam's afraid he'll snap them. He probes the bone structure, the muscle. How the joint works.

“Okay,” he says after a few minutes. Takes a deep breath. “Fuck, man, this is gonna hurt, you're _sure_ you don't want-” Bucky squawks, loudly, and fluffs out all his feathers. “All right, all right. Okay, close your eyes, it'll be over in a second.” Bucky doesn't close his eyes. Stares, resigned, at Sam as he touches the dislocated wing as gently as he can. He can feel the difference, the problem, and he thinks he knows how to get it back in place. Holds his breath, counts in his head. _One, two, three_ , and twists, and the wing joint slides back in, and Bucky pecks at Sam's hand with a sharp beak. Draws blood.

“Fucking _ow_ ,” Sam tells him reproachfully, “come on, dude, I'm trying to help you.” Bucky fluffs his feathers again, flaps his injured wing like he's testing it. Brushes his head against Sam's hand in apology. “Just hurt, huh? Couldn't help it? Yeah, I get it. Sometimes things hurt so bad you don't know what you're doing. Who you're hurting. It's okay. Just a scratch. You want some water?”

He fills a saucer with water, and puts it in the corner of the box. Watches Bucky drink. “So,” he says. Sits down again. “I guess you heard that conversation. Steve's gonna be out of hospital today. You the one who dragged his ass out of the river?” A twitch of the feathers, and Sam's beginning to learn his body language, weird as that is. _Yeah, but don't ask, pal._ Sam reaches for his mug, sips his lukewarm coffee without really tasting it.

“I'm assuming you're not the Soldier right now,” he says, flat, and the crow makes another one of those harsh noises, shrinks back into the corner of the box. “So I don't gotta worry about a wolf's teeth in my throat? Or are you stuck that way?”

Bucky shakes his head. Pauses. Shakes his head again. Flutters weakly, and Sam picks up what he's saying. _Tired_. Too tired to shift, maybe. Spent the last three days fighting his own mind, the pain of a dislocated shoulder, shifting and shifting until he's got no energy left for anything but surrender.

“Well,” Sam says, “okay,” and swallows the rest of his coffee. Gets up to flick the machine on and brew another pot, because fucks sake, he really is too tired for this.

 

They stare at each other silently as the coffee brews, and when it's close to done Sam heaves himself out of his chair, makes himself some toast, refills his cup.

“I gotta get you some birdseed or something,” he says, looks through his pantry for something crow-Bucky can eat, and then glances back to find that Bucky has hopped out of the box and dragged Sam's entire piece of peanut butter toast off his plate, holding it in his beak looking triumphant. “Oh, you don't need bird food. You can eat people food. That's just great, man. That's just great. Show up on my doorstep, eat my food. You know I don't even like pets,” Sam mutters under his breath. The bird caws indignantly. “Yeah, fuck you too.” He puts more bread in the toaster, crosses his arms and glares at Bucky, who is making a valiant effort to fit the whole fucking thing in his beak at once. “So, I'm gonna go visit Steve. That's gonna be a thing. You got any thoughts about that?”

Bucky tilts his head. Swallows a chunk of toast. Sam sips his coffee.

 

He doesn't tell Steve, in the end. _I'll wait_ , he thinks, _just a day or two_. Steve's in no state to go anywhere - shouldn't have left the hospital, if they're being honest - and maybe Sam's thinking about that fragile flutter of feathers, Bucky's bone-heavy exhaustion. Maybe he needs a couple of days before facing Steve. That's okay. Sam can give him a place to rest, just for a moment.

When Sam gets up the next morning, Bucky is gone.

He stays away for two weeks, and then Sam's just back in from his morning run when there's a scratch at the door. A black cat sits politely on his mat, tail wrapped around his haunches, and when Sam holds the door open Bucky stands up, pads inside.

“Long time no see,” Sam says dryly. “I'm not running an animal B&B here. You're looking better, though. Wing healed?”

Bucky looks up at him. Flicks his ears.

“A cat today, huh,” Sam says, and Bucky tilts his head, stretches. Shivers and shifts into a bird, a dog - a wolfhound, standing to Sam's hip - all soot-dark and strange. “No, that's too big, man. Go on, do the cat again.” The dog huffs in what sounds like amused frustration, shivers again. Sits back on his paws and begins to clean his whiskers. Sam rolls his eyes and heads upstairs to shower. Super-soldiers have a habit of showing up on his doorstep, apparently. Just part of his life now.

By the time he gets back downstairs, he finds Bucky curled up in a neat black circle in the armchair in the corner, his nose tucked against his tail. He's asleep, apparently, although the twitch of an ear indicates maybe not as asleep as he's pretending, and Sam just sighs.

“I gotta get to work,” he says, “you want me to leave anything out?” and Bucky yawns. “Food? I don't have any kibble.” A dismissive curl of whiskers, and Sam rolls his eyes. “Water? Yeah, whatever, I'm leaving you some water. If you're still here tonight you can share my dinner.”

He picks up a rotisserie roast chicken from the grocery store on his way home. He knows, logically, that Bucky isn't actually a cat, but the idea of feeding a cat spaghetti makes Sam's head hurt like he needs to pinch the spot between his brows, so chicken it is.

“You can't change human, huh,” Sam says over dinner, and Bucky flicks his ears back. “What's up with that? Hydra?”

Bucky swallows his mouthful. Bares his teeth, fluffs his tail. Lays his ears flat against his head.

“Okay, okay, I get it. Look, you want to stay until you figure it out, that's fine by me. If you're still here in a couple days I'll tell Steve you're okay. I gotta warn you, though, he knows you're here, I'm not gonna be able to hold him back from wanting to see you, right?”

Bucky huffs out a sigh, exactly the kind that Sam understands as _fuckin’ Steve._ It sounds like a noise that's been learned over decades. Sam knows the feeling, even after only knowing Steve for a month.

Apparently he _is_ an animal B&B after all. _You're soft, Sam Wilson,_ he tells himself, but it's not like Bucky takes up much space, after all. There are worse things to be soft about.

 

Bucky doesn't appear to be leaving this time around; Sam gets used to his company, a small black presence in the corner of his living room and his vision. True to his word, he talks to Steve a few days later, careful with the details. Steve is- unimpressed. It's difficult to avoid feeling guilty just based on the puppy-dog eyes he turns on Sam, and Sam makes a mental note to ask Bucky whether Steve's always been this great at the sadly disappointed gaze.

“I don't get why you'd keep this from me,” he says, sounding wounded. “I just want to see him. To know he's okay.”

“Is it more important for you to see him, or to know he's safe?” Sam asks pointedly, and Steve sighs. “Look, all I'm saying is I know where he is. He knows how to reach you, Steve. Give him some time, okay? I think his head's pretty messed up.”

“But he's safe,” Steve says, and Sam nods. “And _you're_ safe? I don't want you to- you don't gotta…”

“He's not dangerous,” Sam says firmly. “I get what you're saying. If I thought he was the Soldier, even a little, I wouldn't leave it like this.”

“And you're talking to him?” Steve asks. Eyes hopeful for the first time. “You're… He's recovering?”

“I'm not Bucky's counsellor, if that's what you're asking,” Sam tells him, very dry. “If he wants therapy he can take his ass on down to the VA and talk to an intake counsellor like everyone else, same as you.”

“I don't need therapy,” Steve says, automatic, and from there they're on familiar ground.

 

At first Bucky is carefully distant, watching Sam from across the room like he's always poised to flee. Sam gets it. Felt the same way, when he first got back from Afghanistan.

There are a few forms he never takes. The eagle, the wolf, the bear. The panther all sharp teeth. Fighting forms, Sam thinks, and wonders if they're all the Soldier. If Bucky's being as carefully soft as he can, now that he can.

He spends most time as a cat. In the corner armchair, and then, cautious, moving to the couch. Sleeping for hours and hours, waking and stretching and curling up again in the slightest of reconfigurations. Sam remembers lying in bed. Staring at the ceiling. Too tired to get up, too sad to do anything at all, and he's not sure whether that's what's going on now or whether this is recovery.

Or maybe, he thinks to himself wryly, it's just behavior following form. Cats always do sleep for like twenty hours a day, right?

He sits down at one end of the couch one evening after loading the dinner dishes into the dishwasher. Glances at Bucky, one paw tucked over his face, and smirks a little to himself. Changes the channel only to discover that Bucky was actually watching whatever it was that was playing. He yowls irritably, and Sam raises an eyebrow.

“You got an opinion, huh?”

Bucky stares at him, unblinking. “Oh, come on,” Sam says. Pokes Bucky in the ribs with his toe, and Bucky startles in a shivering flurry of feathers-fur-claws. When he settles back into cat form it's to glare at Sam with reproachful eyes.

“Sorry,” Sam says. “Still not changing the channel.” Bucky licks one claw very delicately. Settles into a neat little circle, his back to the television.

Half an hour later, he uncoils. Stretches until one front paw is just draped over Sam's ankle. Sam very carefully ignores it. Watches as Bucky shifts in increments until he's got his chin pillowed on Sam's shin.

“See,” Sam murmurs, amused by how Bucky is paying attention to the show even as he pretends he's not, “it's not so bad once you get into it. You want me to start Tivo-ing it for you?”

Bucky pricks Sam's calf with sharp claws, paw flexed just enough to be deliberate. But he doesn't move, and Sam lets himself smile, just a little.

The next evening, Bucky's disappeared outside after dinner, and Sam takes the opportunity to lie down on his couch, stretching out until his feet hit the armrest. Finds a movie playing on cable and settles in to watch.

Bucky shows up again half an hour later. Flies in through the window Sam's started leaving cracked open, shivers mid-air and lands as a dog. Looks at Sam, tilts his head to one side.

 _Can you move over_ , Sam imagines him saying, and laughs out loud.

“No,” he says, “I'm comfortable.”

Bucky whines a little in the back of his throat, edging toward a growl, and Sam rolls his eyes.

“Nah, I'm not moving. It's my couch, buddy, I'm gonna lie on it if I want. You can make yourself little, right? Go take the armchair.”

Bucky growls louder. Shifts dog-to-cat-to-crow, something Sam's begun to recognize as physical shorthand for _jeez, pal, why you gotta_ , and then shivers again, shakes himself back into dog-form. He’s not as big as he was that first time - a husky or a Malamute, not a wolfhound - and he jumps up onto the couch, flops heavily right across Sam and looks down at him very smugly.

“Oh my god,” Sam laughs, “get off, get _off_ ,” and Bucky just huffs out a breath, settles more solidly onto Sam. Head on his chest, paws draped up over Sam's shoulders. He doesn't _smell_ like a dog, Sam thinks absently, and scratches the fur at the nape of Bucky's neck, feels him go limp and heavy in satisfied pleasure.

“This is real awkward if you think about it, bud,” Sam says, and changes the channel.

 

Another week goes by, and then Sam gets up one Saturday morning, rolls out of bed and heads downstairs still in his sweats, with a vague notion of making pancakes for breakfast.

“Morning,” he mutters, opening the blinds, and Bucky uncurls himself, yawns and stretches.

“Morning,” he says back, voice rough and a little gravelly with sleep, and then they're staring at each other. Bucky's eyes are very wide.

“Tell me you couldn't do that all along,” Sam says with feeling, “holy _shit,_ ” and Bucky shakes his head.

“No,” he says through another yawn, “ _no_ , oh my god. Jesus. I couldn't- I- oh my _god,_ Sam, I can talk again.” He shifts like he's shocked by it, crow back to cat to Malamute. Bounds off the couch, brushes against Sam's legs. “I can _talk,_ ” he says again. Laughs in delight, and Sam laughs too like the joy is infectious, and then Bucky is up on his hind legs, front paws on Sam's shoulders, pushing his muzzle against Sam's throat.

“That's great,” Sam says. Giving in, hugging him back. “That's real great, man, I'm happy for you, but what the _fuck._ ”

“Shit if I know,” Bucky says, dropping down with the rippling motion in his shoulders Sam recognizes as a shrug. “I think they- I mean, you know, it- it's some kind of block. I can still feel it, I can't shift human, but it's like it loosened all of a sudden. Whatever they pulled on me wearing off, maybe.”

“So you're stuck like this?”

“For the moment, maybe. I- is that okay? I can, I can go, I dunno, shit, sorry, I didn't even-”

“Bucky,” Sam says. “ _Bucky._ It's fine. Seriously, it's fine.” He runs his fingers through Bucky's ruff of fur to emphasize his point, tugs one of his ears just a little. They're velvet-soft, and Sam has to make a conscious effort to stop touching him. “I was gonna make pancakes, you want some?”

“Hell fuckin’ yeah,” Bucky agrees. “Fuck, you're not going to be able to get me to shut up, first time I heard my own voice in seventy years. You're gonna get sick of my chatter.”

“Well, at least now you can tell me what you want to watch on TV, huh.”

“Yeah, your taste is terrible,” Bucky says, very dry. “I mean, nature shows? Really? That one about all the women with weird K names?”

“Do not tell anyone I watch that,” Sam says meaningfully. “ _Do not._ ”

“Oh, yeah, because I talk to so many fucking people. Don’t worry, Wilson. Your secret’s safe with me. Shit, I’d offer to help with breakfast but it’s kind of difficult.”

“That’s okay,” Sam tells him. “Just keep me company while I cook.”

“That, I can do,” Bucky agrees, and shakes himself down into the cat, leaps up on the kitchen counter.

 _No animals on the countertops,_ Sam is about to tell him. _What is this, a barn?_ Bites the words back. It's hard to remember, sometimes, that Bucky isn't a fucking pet.

“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks instead, and gets to mixing the batter.

 

Bucky’s quieter than Sam expected. Doesn't talk his ear off, just sits silent in the corner of the couch reading all the history he can find. Swiping down on an iPad with one delicate paw.

“Did Stark really… I mean, in a car crash?” he asks quietly one evening, and Sam looks up. Catches how Bucky has shifted small, a mouse curled in on himself, and hesitates before answering.

“That's what the news said at the time,” he says in the end, careful, and Bucky shivers again. Tucks his beak under his wing.

“Right,” he whispers. “It's just-”

“Just?”

“I remember the car, is all,” Bucky says. “Why would I remember the car if I didn't- I had to, I had to set it on fire to hide- fuck, I think I-” and then he's shifting again and again, frantic, like he's trying to find a form in which he can't remember all of this. Settles on a sparrow. Disappears out the window.

When he comes back, he shakes himself into a dog smaller than usual. A puppy, Sam thinks, a puppy with his ears down, forlorn and afraid. His heart hurts just seeing it, and he reaches for Bucky without thinking. Bucky whines a little, crawls into Sam's lap. Hides his face against Sam's hip.

“I think,” he murmurs, “I was a bear. Claws ripped the door right off like it was nothing,” and his shoulders tremble, and Sam strokes his head, slow and careful, until he falls asleep.

 

They run, most mornings. Or, rather, Sam runs, and Bucky tags along laughing at him while he bounds around Sam's legs like he's trying to trip him up. Some days he flies, a bird wheeling high above and catching every air current, and every time Sam is fiercely jealous, misses his broken wings with a physical longing.

“You could ask Steve to get them fixed,” Bucky says one morning, settling back onto Sam's shoulder with a gentle prick of claws, and Sam shrugs.

“Steve doesn't exactly have resources right now,” he says, ignoring how Steve _could_ probably ask Tony for help. Hell, Sam would probably wind up with new and improved wings, automated trajectory calculations, carbon fiber armored surfaces, a drone sidekick, who knows what else. But it'd come with membership to the Avengers, Sam's pretty sure, and he's still kind of ambivalent on that whole situation. Isn't so sure he wants to give up this life.

“Whatever,” Bucky says, bored with the conversation, and flutters off Sam's shoulder again. Shivers into dog-form halfway down. “You done yet? God you're slow.”

“Yeah, yeah, you think you're so funny,” Sam grumbles. Lets Bucky jump up on him and immediately regrets it when Bucky licks his face. “Oh my god, Barnes, boundaries, that's disgusting.”

“You taste like salt,” Bucky shrugs. “Shit, that is weird, isn't it. Sorry, Jesus, you know I'm maladjusted.”

“Ain't that the truth,” Sam sighs, and that's when he sees Steve jogging towards him, a frown creasing his face. “Hey, Steve. I was wondering when you'd start making me look like a fool on this route again.”

“Didn't know you had a dog,” Steve says, and Sam laughs.

“Yeah, her name's Princess. She's a real handful, lemme tell you.” Bucky growls and Sam smirks harder, nudges Bucky where he’s pressed up against Sam’s legs. “She’s a rescue,” he adds confidentially, “needs some social rehabilitation,” and Bucky huffs in outrage, butts his head into Sam’s knee.

“You’re messing with me,” Steve says. Raises an eyebrow. “Go on, tell me with a straight face that ain’t Bucky.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, “you got me,” and Steve takes a deep breath, looks at Bucky like he doesn’t know whether to cry or fling his arms around Bucky’s neck.

“ _Buck_ ,” he says, soft and amazed, a little painful, and Bucky huffs again, shiver-shifts into a mouse and leaps up Sam’s leg to perch on his shoulder, tiny claws digging in and his whiskers brushing Sam’s ear.

“Ease your fuckin’ storm, pal,” he tells Steve, dry as dust, “yeah, it’s me.”

“You’ve been- _Sam’s_ been-” Steve starts, and Sam frowns.

“You knew I knew, Steve. Don't even try it.” Steve’s shoulders slump, all his fight gone out of him at once, and he nods. Fidgets a little.

“You're right,” he says, “you're right, of course you are, I just-”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “I know, Steve. Don't take it personal, okay, I was just tired.”

“Okay,” Steve says, with clear effort, “okay.” Gestures at the nearest patch of grass, brushes a hand through his hair. “You think we could talk, at least?”

“Sure,” Bucky says. Flutters down off Sam's shoulder, shifting into a dog halfway to the ground. Makes himself comfortable, glancing at Sam like maybe him being there is some kind of moral support.

“So, what, you’re stuck like this?” Steve asks, predictable, and Bucky rolls his shoulders in an irritable shrug.

“Fuck if I know,” he says. “I am so far. Maybe it'll wear off.”

“You can't tell?” Steve says, and Bucky huffs a sigh.

“I don't know what they did, Steve,” he explains, quiet and patient in a way that sounds like it hurts. “I don't _know._ I might be stuck like this forever or I might wake up tomorrow just fine. I just gotta-” He cuts himself off, with effort. Lowers his head onto his paws.

 

“What if I am stuck like this?” Bucky asks later, and his voice is quiet and painful and uncertain. He's the crow, right now, very small, nothing but a little ball of sooty feathers.

“You'll work it out,” Sam says, “ _we'll_ work it out, you're not gonna be…” He doesn't know what else to say. _We'll track down Hydra and force them to give up their secrets_ , maybe. Bucky sighs.

“I want to be human,” he says, frustrated. “Shit, Sam, you got no idea- I want-” and cuts himself off, makes a harsh noise.

“What do you want?” Sam asks, and Bucky ruffles his feathers in a shrug.

“Doesn't matter,” he sighs. “No point in crying for something I can't have.”

 _What do you want_ , Sam thinks again much later. Feels it like a brush of feathers. _You could have it, maybe. Just tell me._

 

“I gotta go to the grocery store,” Sam tells Bucky one morning, “you want to stay here or come with?” Bucky shrugs, fur rippling liquid from his shoulders down his spine. Twitches one ear.

“Might as well come,” he says, “I got nothing to do,” and Sam rolls his eyes as he pulls on a sweater.

“You’re a bit big to come in with me, you wanna rethink that?”

Bucky tilts his head to one side. Ripples his shoulders again, shivers down into a small black chinchilla. His ears are very round.

“Don't say it,” he warns, and Sam smirks at him.

“Say what? I wasn't even-”

“You were _thinking_ it,” Bucky snaps. Waits for Sam to sit down before he jumps up onto Sam's knee, runs up his shirt to his shoulder and curls in against Sam's throat.

“Is this okay?” he asks, and Sam nods. Grabs his reusable bags, keys, wallet and phone, pulls his jacket on carefully so he doesn't dislodge Bucky.

“Ugh, man, your whiskers are tickling me,” Sam says, trying not to squirm. Bucky makes a discontented noise.

“Yeah, well, it ain't all sunshine and roses for me either, pal. You wanna lay off the cologne a little, maybe? I'm fucking dying here.”

“Stop shoving your face _right into my neck_ and you won't smell it,” Sam tells him. “Anyway, I smell great. People love it.”

“Hmm,” Bucky mutters darkly, and tucks himself further down into Sam's collar.

 

Bucky at the grocery store is hilarious and painfully sad in about equal measures. _What the fuck is that,_ he keeps saying, which is how Sam winds up bringing home three boxes of disgustingly frosted pop-tarts and every interesting tropical fruit Bucky catches sight of. It’s fine. It’s kind of fun, even, eating dragonfruit and cape gooseberries that evening and watching how Bucky cleans the juice off his whiskers. Sam’s never tried dragonfruit before, or dark blood oranges, or marshmallow pop-tarts. Honestly he could take or leave the pop-tarts, but the dragonfruit is good.

He stays up too late, until his eyes are heavy and there’s something terrible playing on late-night tv. Yawns, and yawns again, and suddenly the idea of climbing the stairs seems like the most difficult thing he’s ever faced. Bucky glances at him. Pricks up one ear, and apparently Sam’s yawning is contagious, because he stretches and then yawns very wide, showing off sharp teeth.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky says, nudging Sam's legs with his nose, “come on, darlin’, go to bed already before you fall asleep right here.”

“I could,” Sam yawns. “You're not the boss of me.” Bucky laughs a little. Shoves him again.

“Come on. That's my bed you're sitting on. You got your own right upstairs.”

“Oh, my couch is _your_ bed,” Sam says. Trying hard to sound outraged, and mostly failing. Fuck, he’s tired. Bucky chivvies him off the couch and up the stairs, and Sam lets him. Brushes his teeth and falls into bed, asleep in the flash between one blink and the next.

 

He wakes up what might be three minutes or three hours later. Sweating, throat hoarse, and there’s a weight at the foot of the bed that his brain doesn’t know how to interpret at first.

He’s falling he’s _falling_ he-

“Sam,” Bucky says again, quiet and careful. “You’re okay. You’re fine.”

“I-” Sam mutters. Drags himself up to sitting. “Shit, sorry, did I wake you?”

“Yeah, you did. Don’t worry about it. What do you need? I’d get you a glass of water, but I can’t exactly… fuck, I hate this.”

“No,” Sam says, “it’s fine.” It’s not fine. It's been a long time since a nightmare this bad. Bucky blinks at him in the half-light, eyes gray, and Sam reaches for the water on his nightstand. Sips it slow like maybe it’ll help wash everything away. It doesn’t, not really, but that’s okay. Just gotta take some deep breaths, he tells himself.

“I’ll-” Bucky whispers, “if you’re sure you’re okay.”

“Oh,” Sam says. “I mean, you-” He blames what he says next on being about three-quarters asleep. “You don't have to go. You can sleep on my bed. If you- I mean-”

“Yeah,” Bucky says slowly. “Okay.”

It takes him a couple of minutes to settle. Careful and precise, curling up tight like he doesn’t want to take up too much room, and Sam suddenly wants to touch him. To run his fingers down the silken ridge of Bucky’s spine, to ground himself in the feel of someone else warm against his skin.

He doesn’t. Just listens to Bucky’s breathing. In the dark, it could be human.

 

The next morning, Sam feels like he’s not quite connected to the world. Not enough sleep, too much swirling in his head. He’s not gonna be any help to anyone at work today, he knows that much, and calls in, organizes cover for his group sessions. At the foot of his bed, Bucky is still asleep. Sam gives in to his impulse. Digs his toe down under the covers to nudge Bucky awake, and watches him uncurl slow and resentful. Grins at him before getting up to go shower.

He gets all the way downstairs and with a full pot of coffee brewed when Bucky finally appears.

“Доброе утро,” Bucky says. “Хорошо ли спалось? ох, мать твою.”

“What's that about?” Sam asks, easy, and watches Bucky shift, crow to cat to wolf to rabbit. He flicks his ears, looks cautiously up at Sam.

“Oh, for _shits sake_ ,” he says, sounding pissed off, and Sam wants to smile but holds it back narrowly.

“Language issues?”

“Things get… mixed up,” Bucky says darkly. “Form and speech and language. It shouldn't, it didn't used to, but they fucked with my brain enough it's a goddamn mess in here. Some days I only get English in some forms.”

“You're real cute,” Sam tells him, can't help it. “My baby niece would think you're right out of Disney.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, morose. “How the fuck is anyone gonna take me seriously when I'm a fuckin’ _bunny rabbit_.”

“I dunno,” Sam grins. “I think you're sweet.”

“Don't you start,” Bucky sighs. “Lift me up, would you?” Sam bends down, scoops him up, cradles him in one arm. Strokes his velvet ears kind of absent-mindedly, and Bucky nibbles at the bare skin of his wrist, delicate and gentle enough that it feels halfway between ticklish and amazing.

“So, what's the plan today?”

“Fuck, I dunno. Not having opposable thumbs is a real downer, lemme tell you. What’s _your_ plan?”

Sam has no plans. He’s tired, he’s so _tired_ , and he lets it show on his face.

“Probably,” he says honestly, “I’m gonna queue up some Netflix and take a nap. You wanna join me?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Why not,” and that’s how they wind up curled up together on the couch. This time, Sam doesn’t hold back from touching. Just strokes Bucky’s ears until they both fall asleep in the soft afternoon sunlight. As far as nightmare days go, it’s not so bad.

 

He has another bad dream that night. It’s only to be expected - they tend to come in waves, working their way out of his system over days and days - but it’s not as bad as the night before, at least. Not so bad that he wakes up screaming, just enough to make him restless in his sleep.

 _Sweetheart,_ Sam thinks he hears. Feels a hand cup his cheek. _It's okay, sweetheart, just a bad dream. You need a glass of water? Yeah, go back to sleep, sugar, you'll be fine in the morning._ In the dream, someone brushes lips soft over his forehead.

When he wakes, the sunlight is streaming in, and Bucky's curled up in cat-form at the foot of his bed, same as usual. Fixes gray-blue eyes on Sam when he sees Sam's awake, and holds his gaze, unblinking, until Sam yawns.

“I had a weird as fuck dream,” Sam tells him, and Bucky yawns too, showing needle-sharp teeth. Flicks his ears forward, uncurls, walks delicately up the bed until he can settle in under Sam's chin.

“What dream?” he asks, and Sam shrugs, feels it disappear even as he tries to grasp for it.

 

The next couple of months, Sam has the feeling like he's waiting for something, like there's something hovering just out of reach. Doesn't know what it might be; has to just hold out for the shape of things to become clear.

“I got a lead on a Hydra base,” Steve tells him over the phone, “you want in?”

“Yeah,” Sam says slowly. “Yeah, okay.”

It's not the first time Steve's asked, but it's the first time Sam has said yes. Feels like a step he can't go back from.

“What was that about?” Bucky asks, uncurling, and Sam stares at the phone for a minute before putting it down.

“A mission,” he tells Bucky, “a Hydra base. We’re gonna take it out, Steve and Nat and I.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, “I- right, okay.”

“You want to come?”

“No,” Bucky says immediately. “No.”

“Okay,” Sam shrugs, and digs in the pantry to figure out dinner.

 

It's not like the mission goes badly, but Sam takes a hit anyway. Nothing major - he patches himself up with the first aid kit in the back of the car, doesn't even need to visit urgent care - but he still gets home bloody and bruised, clutching his ribs.

“No, don't come in, I'll be fine,” he tells Steve, who frowns in guilty concern but lets him go. Bucky glances up as Sam gets in the door, catches sight of Sam’s bruises, and all of a sudden he’s shifting form to form, flickeringly fast like he’s furious.

“Jesus, sweetheart, I'm gonna kill him,” Bucky growls, and Sam shakes his head.

“It's fine,” he manages. “I'll be okay. Looks worse than it is, I swear.” Bends down, wincing, and digs in the freezer until he finds a gel ice pack, holds it to his shoulder.

“He forgets,” Bucky mutters, “everyone ain't a fuckin’ superhuman.”

“Honestly I think this one's on me,” Sam says, “or on Hydra, whatever. They got the drop on me. If it wasn't for Natasha…”

“Natalia,” Bucky says thoughtfully. Nudges Sam towards the couch.

When Steve calls with their next mission, Bucky joins them. Doesn't say a word about it, just tags along, a wolf standing to Sam's hip. Sam knows, when he touches Bucky, when he tangles his fingers into the thick ruff of fur, that Steve notices, is making an effort not to ask.

He notices, too, how Steve never touches Bucky, how Bucky keeps Sam between the two of them. He can't tell who Bucky is trying to protect, whether he's avoiding Steve or trying to keep Sam safe.

It might be both.

 

It's too, too easy to fall into a routine, to live with each other like they've done it for years. Sam only notices occasionally, surfaces and looks back at his life like he's observing from the outside and thinks, _how did we get here._

Bucky is stretched out on Sam the way he likes best, a husky with his head tucked in under Sam’s chin and his paws on Sam’s shoulders. They’re watching tv; Sam is carding his fingers through the soft fur on the back of his head, gently stroking the velvet of his ears, and Bucky huffs out a sigh that sounds very human.

“I don’t see why you gotta be this big when all you’re doing is lying all over me,” Sam tells him, “it’d be a lot easier if you were a cat right now. Cats, I could breathe without feeling like my chest’s being crushed.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Bucky says, “I’m keeping you warm,” and Sam supposes that’s true so he just changes the channel, looks for something interesting to watch. Settles on a nature documentary, something so soothing he can pretty much feel himself drifting into sleep immediately, goes back to idly stroking his fingers through Bucky’s fur. Bucky sighs softer, shivers in a liquid ripple of muscle all the way from his shoulders to his tail. Burrows his face into the curve of Sam’s neck, and shivers again, shifts form absent-mindedly the way he does sometimes. And suddenly there he is, human and beautiful, Sam’s fingers twined in his hair, and Sam has to fucking kiss him. Just can’t not, he didn’t _know_ , but here Bucky is all wide-eyed and surprised, skin warm under Sam’s palm, and Sam tugs his head up, kisses him sweet like it’s all he's wanted to do and he hasn't known until now.

“Oh,” Bucky says, “oh _Christ_ , Sam-” and then he’s changing again, a cat, a mouse, a crow, shifting so fast it’s a blur. Sam feels the brush of feathers on his hand, and Bucky darts away, lands on the back of a chair, ruffles all of his feathers.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Sam tells him, bites his lip. “Bucky, I- god, I’m really sorry.”

“No,” Bucky says, “no, that- that wasn’t on purpose. I was just. Startled, I guess. Hold on, let me try again,” and he ruffles his feathers up again into a small black cloud, shivers, changes human. Grins in delighted disbelief at Sam, and Sam smiles back, slow and very tender.

“There you are,” he says, and Bucky laughs a little.

“Yeah,” he says, “here I am,” and looks down at himself, laughs harder. “Hey, you think I could borrow a pair of pants?”

“Oh my god,” Sam says. Feels himself go hot all over. “Tell me that didn't happen every time you shifted while you were with Hydra.”

“Nah,” Bucky says. “I got rid of the Soldier gear while I still had enough space in my brain to do it, though. You gonna get me those pants or what, Wilson?”

“Oh shit, yeah,” Sam agrees, and gets up. Hears Bucky walking up the stairs behind him like he doesn’t quite want to be left alone.

 

It’s easy to find a pair of sweatpants, a soft t-shirt. He doesn’t let his eyes drift downwards, even as Bucky smirks knowingly, a twist of his mouth that has Sam wanting to kiss him again.

“Thanks,” Bucky says, wry. “I'll just…” Clutches the clothes to his chest, bites his lip. “Actually,” he says, “you know what, I’m gonna take a fuckin’ _shower_ , oh my god.”

“Be my guest,” Sam says, and Bucky tilts his head, considers Sam for a minute.

“Did you mean it?” he asks. “I mean- did you-”

“Bucky,” Sam starts, and doesn't know how to finish. Steps in closer, cups Bucky's cheek. Kisses him very slow. “Yeah,” he breathes against Bucky's mouth. “I meant it.”

“Oh,” Bucky sighs. Softens into the touch like he's starved for it. “Oh, Sam, you don't know-” He makes a little whining noise in the back of his throat, buries his face in the curve of Sam's throat. “I just want- _Jesus,_ I want-”

“What is it,” Sam murmurs, “what do you want, baby?”

“Your hands on me,” Bucky says, “ _god_ , the way you touch me, Sam, it makes me forget…”

“Come on,” Sam says at that, “just, hey, come on.” Takes the clothes back off Bucky, backs him into the bathroom and gets the shower running. Strips off, very matter-of-fact, and catches how Bucky is staring.

“Sorry,” he says, ducking his head and blushing a little, “I just- god, Sam, you…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know I’m gorgeous,” Sam jokes. “Is the water hot yet?”

“You’re gonna shower with me, huh?” Bucky asks, trying to sound teasing, maybe, but it comes out soft and sweetly hopeful.

“Unless you have a problem with it,” Sam shrugs, and Bucky shakes his head.

“Shit no, I don’t- fuck, Sam, come _here_ ,” he says. Pulls them both into the shower, kisses Sam wet under the spray of water. Shudders like it’s too much, maybe, his eyes closed, and Sam drags his fingers through Bucky’s hair, reaches for the shampoo.

“Hey,” he says, “tilt your head back for me,” and works shampoo into Bucky’s hair, fingers scraping gentle against his scalp and the delicate skin behind his ears. Bucky shudders again, harder. Moans under his breath.

“Your _hands_ ,” he says, “Jesus, Sam, don’t stop,” and Sam has no intention of stopping, is the thing. Wants to take Bucky apart so slow and tender it doesn’t hurt at all.

 

When they get out of the shower, Bucky dries his hair slowly, thoughtfully, watching Sam like maybe he might disappear if Bucky looks away too long. Sam catches how Bucky reaches for him and cuts the motion short. Steps closer, touches his fingertips to the small of Bucky's back as they both brush their teeth, and Bucky sighs very soft.

They get into the bedroom and Bucky glances at the bed, catches his breath a little.

“I’ll,” Bucky says, bites his lip, “I’ll sleep on the couch, it’s fine.”

“You’ve been sleeping in my bed for months,” Sam points out, “Bucky, I _want_ you to,” and Bucky looks at him for a minute like he’s making sure.

“I thought maybe you…”

“I meant it,” Sam says, “I _mean_ it, okay,” and Bucky nods.

“Yeah,” he says, “okay,” and changes into a cat just like he does every other night, leaps up on the foot of his bed. Curls up delicately into a perfectly round ball and stares unblinking at Sam. “Hey,” Sam says, getting under the covers, “no, Bucky, Jesus, come _here_ ,” and Bucky stares for a moment longer before shifting back human, uncurling and letting Sam tug him in under the covers.

“Is this okay?” Sam asks, and Bucky makes a noise like he’s disbelieving, wriggles down further and pulls the blankets up around his chin.

“Are you kidding me, it’s amazing,” he says, “I- fuck, Sam, it’s so good, you don’t know how long it’s been since I-” He hesitates, ducks his head and rolls a little closer to Sam, looks up at him. “Can I touch you?” he asks, and it’s shy like he thinks Sam might say no. His body language is so different, Sam realizes suddenly; for months Bucky’s been unselfconsciously physical, curling up against Sam and nuzzling his nose into Sam’s neck, draping himself over him without a second thought. Bucky like this, he’s hesitant, wary, and Sam wonders at the difference.

“Yeah,” Sam says, “yeah, of course you can touch me,” and puts his hand on Bucky’s hip, tugs him closer. Bucky touches Sam’s shoulder, tentative. Slides his fingertips down the line of Sam’s collarbone to the hollow of his throat, up to his jaw. Cups his cheek and pulls him in. It’s so soft it’s hardly even a kiss. Just Bucky’s mouth, resting feather-light against Sam’s. His breath flutters out, hitches a little, and then he’s licking into Sam’s mouth, moaning at the touch.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, “you’re so goddamn beautiful, Sam, you gotta know, right? Jesus, how'd I get so lucky.” He's shivering like he's cold, like it's all overwhelming. Sam knows the feeling.

 

Sam wakes up in the night and Bucky is lying next to him, warm and naked and human, his hair a dark tangle on the pillow. His face is slack with sleep and his shoulder is bare where the comforter has slipped and Sam-

Sam thought it might have been a dream, is all. He pulls the comforter back up. Rolls in closer and kisses the nape of Bucky's neck, listens to him sigh in his sleep.

 

When he wakes again the next morning it's to think, drowsy, _I could get used to this._ Bucky's lips nuzzled in against his throat. Pulling back, blinking wide blue eyes at him.

“So,” Sam says. “What do you want to do today?”

“Go down on you until you cry,” Bucky says thoughtfully. “Then coffee. Oh my _god_ black coffee with as much sugar as’ll fit in the cup. Maybe I'll make you breakfast, how about that.”

“Sounds good to me,” Sam smiles. “What, you making up for all that time I cooked for us, huh?”

“Hell yes,” Bucky agrees. “Hell yes. It's the least I can fucking do.”

“Hey,” Sam tells him, “you don't owe me, right? It's not like I- well, I wasn't _taking care of you,_ or anything. You don't gotta…”

“I know,” Bucky murmurs. Wraps himself around Sam. “I want to, though. God knows I do, I wanna take care of you, sweetheart, now that I can.”

“Well,” Sam says. Kisses Bucky's hair. “I'm not complaining.”

“You want me to stay?” Bucky asks again, like maybe he's not sure. “You want that?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Yeah, I really do.”

It's nothing but the truth, he realizes, startled at how it comes to him. He could wake up like this for the next ten years and be happy.

 

Bucky's true to his word, gets his mouth on Sam for so long he thinks he might die when he finally comes, and then rolls them out of bed, makes omelets flourishing the spatula like he knows just what he's doing.

“You've been holding out on me,” Sam says with easy good humor, tucking his chin against Bucky's shoulder and letting his fingers drift down over Bucky's bare hipbone. “Didn't know I was living with someone who could cook this good, shit, my cooking must have been painful.”

“You're fine,” Bucky says, indulgent. “It's been like seventy years since I did this, I wasn't even sure I knew how. Apparently it’s all muscle memory, huh. _Fuck_ it’s nice having hands again, lemme tell you.”

“What's it like?” Sam asks. “Being human, I mean.”

“Never wasn't,” Bucky says thoughtfully, “but it… I dunno. What's it like being a civilian?”

“You could find out,” Sam suggests, and Bucky turns to brush a kiss to Sam’s lips.

“Hmm,” he hums, “guess I could.”

 

They have days and days of nothing but discovering each other. A honeymoon phase, Sam thinks, and is promptly embarrassed by himself, but that’s how it feels, this soft little bubble of time where it’s just the two of them. They're gonna have to involve Steve eventually, he knows that much, but just for now, he's selfish. Holding it all to himself, a secret little moment full of touch and laughter.

“Guess we should have Steve over,” Bucky murmurs one night, his head resting in Sam’s lap and his legs hooked over the arm of the couch. “Whaddya say? I’ll bake a chicken.” Sam touches Bucky’s cheek. Smiles down at him.

“Oh, you’ll bake a chicken, huh? That’s how it is?”

“You love it,” Bucky shrugs, “don’t lie,” and Sam does, he loves it, this easy domesticity like he’s known Bucky a hundred years already. It makes Steve weird, he can tell, Steve glances between the two of them like he’s trying to figure them out and can’t add up the math. Frowns, sharp and complicated, and then Bucky shoves a giant bite of chicken in his mouth, grinning through his mouthful at Sam, and Sam rolls his eyes and shoves Bucky’s shoulder and feels Bucky lean into the touch, and Steve’s face clears like he understands something suddenly.

“Oh,” he says, half under his breath, and Bucky turns his grin on Steve.

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” he agrees. Smirks like he’s won a prize, somehow, and Sam can’t help but laugh, because Steve’s face is a picture.

“Jesus, you could try to sound a little less smug,” he tells Bucky, and Bucky shrugs again, a lazy roll of his shoulders. Shifts into cat form real quick like maybe he actually wants to look a little more smug, perhaps, and Sam shakes his head.

“Stop fucking with your boy, you jerk,” he says, and Bucky shivers back human, settles in his seat.

“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, Steve.”

“Whatever,” Steve says, resigned. “I should have known, huh. This is just your style.”

“Just my natural charm,” Bucky says, chewing another bite of chicken with his mouth open, and Sam makes meaningful eye contact with Steve, makes a face.

 

Another week goes by, two, and they get a lead on another potential Hydra stronghold. Sam suits up. Glances over at Bucky.

“You want a gun, or something? Five guns?”

“Nah,” Bucky says, “I’ll go in all fangs, I think.” Shifts into wolf-form and nudges Sam’s knee with his nose. “Come on, we doing this or what? Quit fuckin’ about, wouldya.”

“Some days I regret letting you into my house,” Sam tells him. “Yeah, yeah, let’s go. Steve, you gonna take point?”

The first level is easy. Suspiciously easy, Sam thinks, suspiciously quiet and empty as if they were expected, and Bucky huffs out a breath like he’s thinking the same.

“This feel like a trap to you?” he asks, and Steve lifts his shield a little higher, gestures silently at the door.

There’s a man standing at the other end of the corridor. He’s the first person they’ve seen in this complex, and he turns, tilts his head. Smiles pleasantly.

Bucky’s hackles go up under Sam’s hand, a growl vibrating through him. Sam shoots; the bullet ricochets away just as Steve’s shield bounces off something unseen. A barrier, a force-field: they can’t reach him but when he opens his mouth to speak, the sound passes through.

“Желание,” the man says, and wolf-Bucky stops, pricks his ears forward and then back.

“Oh,” he says, “no,” and the man steps forward.

“Ржавый. Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

“No,” Bucky says, “no, _no_ ,” and shifts to a crow, a rabbit, the smallest mouse Sam’s ever seen. Runs up Sam’s shoulder, hides in his collar, he’s trembling so hard Sam can feel it vibrating against his skin and the man just smiles very cold and very cruel and mouths _печь_. Sam's head feels thick with pain, pressure on his skin like a thunderstorm in the air, and he understands somehow that this is Bucky being forced to shift and resisting as hard as he can. This is what the magic feels like when it’s pushing at his mind and his skin and his bones.

“Bucky?” Steve’s asking, frowning sharp with confusion, and Bucky leaps from Sam’s shoulder in a burst of feathers, spreads his wings, shifts again mid-air and lands as a bear looming huge over the both of them.

“Sam,” he says, voice tight with pain and fear, “ _run_ ,” and Sam grabs Steve, shoves him toward the door, takes off as fast as he can.

“We can’t just-” Steve is yelling as they burst into the sunlight, Bucky’s roars filling the corridor behind him.

“We can,” Sam tells him, “we _gotta_ , Steve, you can’t-” and Steve grits his jaw, squares his shoulders.

“I have to,” he says, “I _have_ to,” and of course he has to, Steve’s fundamentally incapable of running away from a fight. So is Sam, when it comes down to it, and he takes a deep breath, turns around.

 

They win the fight, just. Steve distracts Bucky while Sam battles his way through the forcefield, knocks the Hydra operative unconscious before he can get a chance to crush the cyanide capsule in his molar. But at the end of it, Bucky is gone. Nothing but a few feathers scattered on the ground, a single drop of blood, a deep scratch in Steve’s shoulder.

 _He ran_ , Sam thinks, he figured out the shit they have in his head and he ran, took his danger and his programming as far away from Sam as he could get. Understanding why Bucky did it doesn't make it hurt any less.

“He'll come back,” Steve says, pained and hopeful, “he did before,” and that's true, but Bucky didn't _know_ then. Came to Sam for help, for rest, for somewhere to call home, and never knew these words were lurking like an untripped landmine deep down in his brain.

When he gets back to his apartment, it feels echoingly empty and silent and cold.

 _I wanted you to stay_ , he thinks to himself, _I wanted this life, why’d you have to go,_ and it hurts so much more when he admits it.

 

Turns out Steve does have resources.

Sam gets his wings back, better than ever, and the first flight all he can think is how much he wishes Bucky was right there all dark feathers and sly laughter. Instead he’s part of a team, an Avenger discovering what it means to be a superhero, and through every mission he can’t help but miss Bucky. It’s an ache that fits in around to the older ones, right next to Riley in his heart, an ache that deepens on long, quiet evenings and every time he’s out for a run.

He can tell Steve’s worried, and he smiles through it, cracks jokes, tests out the new tech Tony won’t stop developing now that he’s started. A week goes by. A month, and then another, and Steve brings up moving to New York. Closer to the team, is the thing, it makes sense, DC is still kind of fucked up after SHIELD’s fall, but Sam just-

He doesn’t want to leave.

“Yeah, I get it,” Steve says, and doesn’t bring it up again even when he moves his own shit into the Tower. Drops Sam home in the Quinjet after every mission, and this isn’t so bad, Sam thinks, even as he’s bruised and tired and feeling that hollow space where someone might have been, once.

 

There are lights on in his apartment.

There are lights on in his apartment, and Sam knows, Sam _knows_ he didn’t leave them burning this morning, and when he stands still and listens carefully he hears something scrape in the kitchen, metal on metal.

He draws his gun. Pushes the door closed behind him, carefully quiet, and walks towards the kitchen. It’s probably nothing, it’s probably fine, it’s just, he keeps thinking: _what if it’s not_. He gets to the doorway and-

Bucky turns, flashes him a smile, reaches over to stir the pan on the stove. He’s holding a kitchen knife easy in his right hand, letting it dangle loose in his fingers. There’s a dish towel flung over one shoulder.

“Hi,” he says, and Sam blinks a little. Sets his gun down on the console table next to the door.

“What- I- what are you doing here?”

“Making dinner,” Bucky says like it’s obvious. “You didn’t have much but there was rice and a carton of broth in the pantry, and you had some chicken and spinach in the freezer, so I thought I’d make risotto. Hope you’re good with that.”

“Risotto,” Sam says, aware he sounds stupid as hell right now but unable to stop it. “You made risotto.”

“Yeah,” Bucky shrugs. Stirs the rice in the pan again. “Figure I’ll go to the grocery store tomorrow. You gotta stop eating that frozen crap, sweetheart, it ain’t good for you.”

“Bucky,” Sam says, soft, a little tender, and Bucky glances back at him. “You’re- I mean, you’re. You’re in my house. You _let yourself into my house_ , oh my god.”

“I can leave,” Bucky says immediately, “I can- fuck, Sam, I can go, I just thought-”

“No,” Sam says. Steps closer. “No, shit, that’s not- that’s the opposite of what I want, I just- you’re _here_.” He hesitates. Reaches out, touches his fingertips to Bucky’s bare wrist. Bucky looks down at Sam’s hand, closes his eyes, opens them again wide and gray-blue and fringed with very long dark lashes. Shivers a little like he’s about to shift.

“Yeah,” he says, voice quiet and rough. “Yeah, sweetheart, I’m here,” and that’s all it takes for Sam to grab him by his shirt, drag him close enough to kiss. Bucky makes a noise all surprise against Sam’s lips before melting into it, dropping the knife on the counter, grabbing Sam’s hips to pull him in closer.

“Don't leave again,” Sam murmurs, feeling his throat tight with tears. “Jesus, Bucky, don't-”

“Not if I can help it,” Bucky agrees. Touches his fingers to Sam's chin, slides his palm along Sam's jaw until he's cradling the nape of Sam's neck. “My head’s finally clear. I was kinda hoping I could stay. I was kinda hoping-”

“Yeah,” Sam breathes. Exhales. “Hoping what, huh?”

“Well, I was just kinda hoping you might not regret letting me in, is all,” Bucky says. Easy, like he's been practicing, but Sam can see in all the lines of his body how he's holding himself for the reply.

“Even though you leave hair all over the couch cushions,” Sam teases, and Bucky bites his lip. “You know what? I never regretted that. Not even at the start.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sam murmurs. Hooks his fingers into the belt loops of Bucky’s jeans. “I missed you, baby.”

“I know,” Bucky sighs, soft. “I missed you too. I just wanted you to be safe, but god, darlin’, I missed you so much.”

“Stay,” Sam tells him again, “stay, this time.”

“I will,” Bucky says, “if you’ll let me,” and closes the distance in a kiss, the brush of his mouth on Sam’s as light and gentle as feathers.

**Author's Note:**

> eyyyy this one's been sitting in my drafts for months
> 
> "I got a problem," I said to coffeeinallcaps. "my problem is how do I write shapeshifter AU without accidentally making it furry."  
> "that is a problem," she said. "you'll be fine."
> 
> hopefully this is fine.
> 
> I am [on tumblr](http://notcaycepollard.tumblr.com/) and always here to talk about soft mythical creature bucky. let's chat. If you enjoyed this feel free to check out the [aesthetic/moodboard](http://notcaycepollard.tumblr.com/post/157719248671/youre-my-river-running-high-run-deep-run-wild) that goes with it.


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